


The Uninvited Guest

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Affection, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkwardness, Caretaking, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sleep disorders, Sleepwalking, Wound Tending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Aziraphale is used to spending long nights battling insomnia and repairing old and damaged books. But he's unprepared for his new neighbour to be quite so attractive, or to develop a habit for sleepwalking into his flat during the night.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 800
Kudos: 789
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Like Ships Passing In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> [gayforgoodomens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayforgoodomens) shared an idea where Crowley has a habit of constantly sleepwalking into Aziraphale's flat across the hall. I loved the image of that and asked if I could write it for my first human AU. They were kind enough to say yes. Thank you! <3
> 
> There is art of [sleepwalking Crowley](https://jb612.tumblr.com/post/645121248491405313/sleepy-crowley-based-on-entanglednows-new-wip) by the lovely jb612, with some bonus variations, and I love all of them, he's adorable.

It's quarter to four in the morning and Aziraphale is carefully separating yellowed pages at his desk.

He's always liked the hours before dawn. There's a certain consistency to the quiet that makes concentrating significantly easier, especially on delicate and fiddly tasks. He'd developed something of a habit in his youth, carving out precious undisturbed stretches of time for himself when everyone else was asleep.

Though for a while now it hasn't been so much due to early rising as a frustrating inability to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. It seems a bit ungrateful to complain about insomnia when it often gives him the most productive hours of the day. Hours when he works until his body gives up hoping for some rest and makes a disgruntled effort to start the new day instead.

The book spread open on his desk is in remarkably good condition considering its age. Which, somewhat disappointingly, is not reflected in its worth. Though he'd still been very careful to make sure his hands were clean and dry before setting everything out, so as not to risk any further damage. The binding is fraying a little but most of the pages have held up surprisingly well. The ones that haven't are in a shocking state though, and if Aziraphale ever gets his hands on the person who'd thought _sellotape_ was any way to treat a two hundred year old, beautifully illustrated copy of -

The floor behind him gives a long creak and he startles, very nearly slicing his way clean through the pages, rather than the yellowed line of tape caught on their edges.

"Good lord." A quick look behind him confirms what he already suspected. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pounding from the unexpected shock, before slowly pushing his glasses up and regarding the cause of the interruption.

It's not a burglar, it's just Crowley.

His neighbour from across the hall, Mr. A. J. Crowley, at least according to the post that was occasionally still delivered here. He'd lived on this side of the hall originally but had agreed to switch flats with him when he moved in. Aziraphale had needed a fairly dry atmosphere with as little sunlight as possible, for his books. Crowley apparently had something of a botanical interest and had taken the south-facing wall for his plants.

Unfortunately, Crowley seemed to think that he still lived here. Or part of him did anyway.

"Hello, Crowley," Aziraphale says quietly, gently tugging his glasses off completely and setting them on the desk behind him. "I see you're on an adventure again tonight."

Crowley doesn't reply, he simply continues to slowly shuffle past the desk, giving the occasional hum of progress. He's quite deeply asleep.

The invasion has become something of a habit. 

Aziraphale is led to understand that - outside of children where it's most common - sleep deprived workaholics with high stress lifestyles are prime candidates for sleepwalking. He's only known the man a few months, but Crowley certainly seems to give that impression. He's roughly the same age as Aziraphale, though he carries it a little better, all long slim lines and hard angles that he likes to squeeze into expensive designer clothes. Though his preference seems to be wearing them like he'd thrown them on in a hurry. He's handsome enough to turn heads, and the way he saunters about and leans provocatively on his car suggests that he knows it. But there's a bite to every word out of his mouth, and an air of restless impatience to him that borders on rudeness. The habit he has for wearing sunglasses at all hours of the day or night doesn't help. It only seems to confirm that the last thing he wants is to be bothered.

The expensive outfits he's more used to seeing during the day are currently missing though. Instead, Crowley's wearing deep red pyjama trousers and a faded black t-shirt, the neck of which is loose enough to have slipped sideways, exposing his collarbone and the rounded curve of one shoulder. His strange hazel eyes are half-open, but Aziraphale knows from experience that he's not even close to awake. His striking fin of rust-red hair is crumpled on one side, as if he'd been rubbing it on a pillow half the night.

The first time it had happened had almost scared Aziraphale to death, understandably. He'd woken from a half-doze in his armchair, a book still spread open on his chest, to a looming figure in the darkness. Only to realise, after a rather embarrassing series of noises, that luckily no one had been witness to, and one inaccurately thrown cushion, that the tall man in his apartment was in fact his sleepwalking neighbour. 

He'd said barely two dozen words to Crowley before that. After the agreement to switch they'd only really exchanged a few socially expected head tips and muttered words of greeting, a brief mention of the weather here and there. Certainly nothing that would have prepared Aziraphale to find the man swaying in his living room in silk pyjama trousers and a faded Queen t-shirt.

He'd debated for a while whether to wake him, but that had seemed an overly familiar sort of thing to do. He hadn't known yet that waking someone who was sleepwalking wouldn't harm them. So, after dithering for a moment, he'd eventually herded the poor man back through the hall and into his own flat. The door of which had still been wide open, the light from the hall spilling inside.

Crowley had been terribly embarrassed when Aziraphale had stopped him the next morning and explained - of course he had to explain - and he hadn't enjoyed it at all. It had been a deeply awkward conversation for the both of them. Crowley had apologised to Aziraphale and told him it wouldn't happen again. He'd even promised to buy a bolt for his door.

It hadn't helped.

He's only been living here a few months though. It seemed unkind to expect a man's subconscious to adapt to new surroundings so quickly. Aziraphale supposes that Crowley will realise he's in the wrong place eventually and it will stop. He's not really any trouble, unexpected manifestations aside, no, he's not a terribly bothersome guest at all.

If Aziraphale is being perfectly honest he finds the man rather intimidating when he's awake. The few times they've met each other in the hall Crowley had seemed restless, posture angled as if to attack, or to defend against one. The dark circles of his sunglasses give no clue where exactly he's looking, leaving Aziraphale to imagine sharply narrowed eyes and a tense set to his mouth. Though Aziraphale still forces himself to offer a good morning, or bid him a good day, mostly because he can't quite find a way to wish him a restful night.

"I see I'm not the only one who's been fighting their disordered sleep patterns tonight." It seems equally unfair for Aziraphale to admit that he finds him easier to talk to like this, this softer, more relaxed version of Crowley, stripped of all tension, purpose and sharp edges. He hasn't earned this intimacy after all, it's a vulnerability that Crowley never chose to share, it was forced upon him. Which must be an awful thing to deal with. 

Aziraphale has already chided himself several times for his not entirely innocent appreciation for how handsome the man was in these moments. The shape of him appealingly soft and sleep-rumpled as he sways his way around Aziraphale's home - his intimate personal spaces - as if he belongs here. But noticing how lovely he is seems a terrible breach of trust while Crowley is unaware and somewhat under his care - the unspoken agreement of which is a disturbingly nebulous thing.

He catches himself, not for the first time, staring at the snake tattoo in front of Crowley's right ear, a stylish Gordian knot of serpentine loops. It's a strangely bold place to have a tattoo, though Crowley seems the type not to care what other people think, or at least to give the impression very strongly that he doesn't.

Aziraphale is not entirely sure how Crowley's even getting into the flat. The lock on his front door always seems sturdy when he tests it, yet somehow it never holds against the determined persistence of his sleeping neighbour. There's still the very real risk of being startled out of a book repair some time between two and four in the morning, by an uninvited guest in his flat. 

Crowley's usually wandering between the kitchen and the living room, frowning in bewilderment at what Aziraphale would imagine is a confusingly unfamiliar environment. He seems to dislike the fridge especially. Last week he'd stood in front of it saying 'no' very quietly under his breath. Aziraphale had chosen not to take this as a judgment on the half a raspberry cheesecake that had still been in there. But Crowley had been strangely insistent about it, and it was a few minutes of gentle urging before he'd been able to catch hold of the man's chilled arm and coax him back into his own flat.

Aziraphale pushes his chair back very slowly and stands, stretching out the ache in his back, the one that tells him sharply how long it had been since he last moved.

"Time to get you back to your own bed, I think," Aziraphale says, and can't help being amused how much it sounds like he expects a reluctant reply. He'd been forced to do a fair bit of research when it became clear it wasn't going to be a random event but something of a recurring problem. That was when he'd discovered that though it wasn't dangerous to wake a sleepwalker it could be horribly disorienting, even frightening, for them to regain consciousness in an unfamiliar place. The recommendation was to try and avoid startling them, if possible. It was easier to let them work through their own dream-like wanderings, if it was safe to do so. Then take them back to their own room and resettle them.

Aziraphale is aware that people would argue that Crowley isn't - that he shouldn't be - his responsibility. But it's really no trouble. It's something of a break from his own lonely thoughts. He reaches out and gently curls his fingers behind Crowley's elbow. His skin is still warm, suggesting he hadn't been out of his bed for very long. Aziraphale mentally apologises for the familiarity while very slowly turning him, hoping to guide him back out into the hall.

"There we go." It's a slow process sometimes, as if Crowley objects to having his expedition cut short. But eventually his feet shuffle around on the carpet, the red silk brushing his ankles. "That's right, we've done this before. You know the way."

"Angel," Crowley says quietly, not for the first time. Aziraphale has grown used to the way he talks in his sleep while he moves around, sometimes fragments of a thought, sometimes simply the punch of a word or two here and there - often repeated in different tones and cadences, as if he's looking for the right one, something in his head catching on a thought that it can't quite shake. "There was an angel."

"They are fascinating creatures," Aziraphale agrees, because it seems easier that way. "I have some books on religious iconography. You're free to borrow them if you find your interest continuing in the waking world." He'd originally worried that saying anything in response to him would disturb Crowley. But after he'd sent a few chairs and several stacks of books crashing to the floor, and slept through the whole thing, it had become apparent that a few comments weren't going to wake him. 

Aziraphale has found that there's a strange comfort to be had in making it feel more like a conversation.

"I was looking. I was looking. I was looking. I was looking." The words gradually soften, become almost plaintive before they eventually trail off.

"I'm afraid you won't find any in here," Aziraphale tells him apologetically. "No angels to be found in my bookshelves, or my fridge, I'm sorry to say. Come on now, your own bed has to be more comfortable than my draughty living room."

Crowley blinks slowly, but thankfully he lets himself be gently turned again and led back out into the cold hall. The door to his flat is open as well, and Aziraphale notices that he hasn't just invested in a bolt. There's also a sturdy white chair that had clearly been pushed aside so he could gain access to the outside.

"No luck there either I see." Aziraphale can't help being sympathetic to what must be a deeply frustrating problem. "Well I suppose at least coming to visit me is safer than you wandering around outside, or, God forbid, possibly taking a spill down the stairwell."

Aziraphale would much rather live through a few interruptions than worry that Crowley was sleepwalking through London in his pyjamas. At least he's mostly safe if he's padding around his bookshelves and having mysterious opinions about his fridge.

The first few times Aziraphale had left him just inside his own flat. It had seemed like too much of an invasion to spend more time than absolutely necessary in a stranger's home, not without being invited. But he'd learned that if he did that then Crowley had a tendency to drift back across the hall again. Or, in some cases, he'd simply keep wandering around his flat for a while, making the odd thumping or clattering noise. Aziraphale couldn't help but worry that he'd hurt himself stumbling around in the dark. So he'd started gently ushering Crowley back into his bedroom - though he was quite aware how that might look if the man found out it had become necessary before he could explain himself.

Aziraphale had left a note taped to the inside of Crowley's front door doing exactly that, apologising profusely for overstepping such a large boundary. Offering Crowley an opportunity to object, or to offer an alternative.

He hadn't heard anything back after that, but there had been a large and expensive hamper filled with a selection of teas, biscuits, and chocolate delivered to him a few days later.

Crowley had seemed genuinely mortified about the whole thing. 

Aziraphale is fairly certain he's avoiding him now.

At least during the day.

Crowley's flat is much nicer than Aziraphale had expected it to be, even if it does feel a little empty. The walls are a moody pale grey but it's a clean, airy space, with a selection of lush green plants in every room. He has exactly one bookshelf, which is half full, and his taste in paintings could best be described as 'spooky' and 'whimsical.' Aziraphale likes to take this as a sliver of proof that the man isn't quite as prickly as he likes to appear.

A soft, plump looking pillow sits incongruously on the floor of the living room, one corner of the pillowcase stretched out, as if Crowley had attempted to take it with him. Aziraphale stops to pick it up, puffing it carefully back into shape. Crowley sways gently next to him until Aziraphale reaches for his arm again.

"You'll be much warmer when you're back in bed," he tells him.

Crowley's bedroom is stylish but surprisingly empty too, nothing inside it except the bed and a small black cabinet beside it, which holds a lamp, a phone case and a ridiculously large watch.

The duvet is pushed back, not folded but bunched, as if Crowley had slithered out of it rather than flung it off of himself. It's still warm when Aziraphale carefully folds it out of the way so he can sit Crowley down, putting the pillow back where it belongs and then coaxing him to lay down on it.

"There we go, that's much better, isn't it?"

"Angel," Crowley mutters, as if he's finally found what he'd been looking for.

"There you are, back where you belong," Aziraphale says encouragingly. "And no wandering for the rest of the morning, hmm? You'll wear yourself out. I know how terribly busy you are during the day, this can't be good for you. You need some proper rest." Aziraphale knows from experience. He knows how difficult getting a proper rest can be.

He stops himself from tucking the quilt around the man, they are effectively still strangers and the only way Aziraphale has so far managed to not feel like he's in some way taking horrible advantage - or being deeply inappropriate - is if he stays in the man's flat no longer than absolutely necessary.

He makes his way back to his own front door, then heads inside, pushing it shut behind him.

Concentration broken for a while, and with no desire to sleep any time soon, he puts the kettle on. Perhaps some camomile tea will warm him up.


	2. Hello Neighbour

A man cannot live on cheese, tea and grapes alone - at least not one that wishes to live without digestive discomfort. Aziraphale is going to have to go out, to brave the crowds, and at the very least buy some more bread and milk. Perhaps a selection of biscuits as well? Something he can nibble in his brief breaks from finishing up the projects he'd set out for the week.

It's still early, though not unsociably so, and if he heads out now there's a good chance that he'll be finished before the worst of the crowds. He gathers his wallet and keys, then drapes his satchel over his shoulder, since it never hurts to be prepared with a book or two just in case. It wouldn't be the first time he'd felt brave enough to indulge in the possibilities of a nice day, perhaps at a quiet table with a cup of something and a scone. And if the day turns out to be less auspicious and more taxing - an emergency at the shop perhaps - then at least he has something in the way of a distraction.

Only it's clear immediately that he'd timed his exit poorly. Because when he pulls the door shut behind him, keys still held in his hand, his turn towards the lift brings him face to face with his handsome sleepwalking neighbour. 

Though Crowley is most definitely awake this morning. His mouth is a tight, unhappy line, the expression behind his sunglasses something of a mystery. He's wearing at least three layers of charcoal clothing and what looks like it desperately wants to be a scarf. The red hair that Aziraphale is more used to seeing as a disordered mess has been styled in a way that appears effortless but probably wasn't.

"Ah," Aziraphale manages. Well, isn't this awkward. Why is the man so much easier to talk to when he's asleep?

Crowley grimaces, as if Aziraphale is the last person he expected - or wanted - to see this morning. Aziraphale tries not to be too upset by that, he supposes he wouldn't relish the reminder that he was stumbling into someone else's home in the middle of the night either. The whole thing must be a source of constant embarrassment.

Perhaps he could simply nod and pass on by, an acknowledgement from a neighbour without the addition of words? They're not friends after all, they've barely interacted during the day, and it would be horrible if Crowley felt under some sort of obligation to be friendly because he'd inconvenienced him a few times. No, Aziraphale can't think of anything more unbearable than someone forcing themself to be friends with him.

He inclines his head, tries to look as if he has a purpose too. ' _Oh dear, lots to do, no time at all to stop and chat. Gosh, he has such a pressing variety of tasks to occupy himself with today. After a perfectly normal night where nothing noteworthy happened. Perhaps they'll chat another time, but he's in quite a rush._ '

He thinks he makes a fairly good job of it, though he supposes that's because he has some experience looking tired and flustered. He debates rifling in his bag for effect, but decides that might be a step too far. He's sure Crowley isn't looking at him any more, certainly not once the lift doors close. But he doesn't quite relax as it takes him down to the ground floor. There's always a chance Crowley will head down the stairs in a fit of impatience and Aziraphale will be forced to continue to look too busy to talk as he exits the building as well. 

He knows how awkward Crowley must feel about the whole thing. Aziraphale thinks he should be allowed to feel normal, without someone drawing attention to it all the time.

It's the least he can do.

-

Crowley watches Aziraphale Fell give him a pained nod of acknowledgement and then hurry his way to the lift, muttering to himself and fussing with his bag. He doesn't look back at Crowley once, not even after he steps inside the lift, instead staring at the buttons like Crowley's a gorgon he's afraid to lock eyes with. As if he doesn't want to give Crowley the opportunity to make a comment, or attempt basic social niceties. 

It's probably for the best, he'd almost certainly be stuck making throat noises at the poor man in the hallway, which he's fairly sure would just make everything worse.

What exactly was he supposed to say to him anyway? ' _Hey, I'm sorry that I've been breaking into your apartment in my sleep and probably scaring the absolute shit out of you. Hey, I'm sorry you have to lead me back into my apartment and put me to bed like a small child. Hey, I'm sorry that I've already made our relationship so awkward that now you barely even look at me when you see me in public._ '

Christ.

Anyone else probably would have called the police by now. Or started bolting their door and just leaving him to wander the hallway all night, at the mercy of the lifts and the treacherous stairwell. But, no, this guy leaves polite hand-written notes, in what Crowley's fairly certain is actual calligraphy, explaining exactly where he'd been and what he'd done during the night. Of course, the explanation is always followed by various apologies for 'overstepping' and 'invading his personal space' terribly concerned that he'll 'make him uncomfortable.' When he's the one who's probably waking up to Crowley looming over him like something out of a horror movie. 

Yes, he knows perfectly well which one of them should be worrying about making the other uncomfortable.

Crowley's new neighbour may possibly be the nicest man he's ever met. Which he thinks might say as much about the sort of people he's tended to hang around with in the past as it does about Aziraphale.

He locks his door behind him, hissing through his teeth at the frustrating indignity of it all.

He's been sleepwalking since he was a child. But normally it was just around his own place, disturbing his own junk, occasionally dragging around the pillows or leaving the fridge open. He hadn't actually wandered out of his house since he was a kid, and even then it had only happened rarely. He'd ended up in the garden a few times, and once very memorably he'd woken up staring at his reflection in a parked car three streets from home, freezing and disorientated. His bare feet had been soaking with dew, dirt and leaves mashed between his toes.

For some stupid reason his body is definitely keen on wandering now though. Straight out of the flat and into the one he used to occupy across the hall. Nothing he does seems to stop it either, not locks, not bolts, not shoving two chairs full of fucking books in front of the door. His sleeping body slithers its way out any way that it can, like some sort of supernatural locked-room-escaping cryptid.

The flats had almost all changed hands within the last few months. He'd been hoping for something of a new start. He'd figured it was too much to hope for to make a good impression on the new tenants, he's never been the friendly, sociable sort who gets involved in things. He's too old to play the game where he pretends to like people. But he'd been trying not to antagonise any of the new people unnecessarily. Which he thinks he might actually have a shot at now the building had lost Johnson with the loud music and the constant piles of old electronics left in the stairwell. Or Mrs Richardson with her feral gang of cats that wouldn't stop spraying in the lifts. Not to mention the couple that were constantly either arguing or having loud sex directly below him - and honestly both of those had sounded much the same.

New faces new start, right?

Crowley just wants to live here and not make any trouble, he desperately wants to not be a problem, to be quiet and forgettable (though maybe not so quiet and forgettable that he'd be found dead in his flat six months later without anyone noticing or caring.) He certainly hadn't ever wanted to be the weird one - he's the weird one now, isn't he? Three months of new faces and he's already the creepy sleepwalking neighbour that breaks into other people's homes.

God damn it.

He has no idea how many people know about him already, how many people he's disturbed while up and about. Or how many doors he'd tried before he found one he liked. Judging by Fell's embarrassingly detailed notes it's usually around three in the morning and mostly just across the hall but who knows for sure. Still, the man keeps better notes on his sleepwalking than Crowley ever has. Where was Aziraphale when he was a teenager? 

Crowley's suddenly struck by the very real possibility that he might have tried to climb into Aziraphale's bed too, thinking that it was his own. What if he'd slipped in next to that soft-looking man and stretched out on his warm sheets with him? While he was sleeping there completely unaware in his probably ridiculous flannel pyjamas - that may or may come with a bow tie. He's the only man Crowley has ever met who he can picture wearing a bow tie with his pyjamas. Course he wouldn't stay asleep for long, not with Crowley rudely plonking himself down next to him, all bony limbs and cold hands where they didn't belong. 

God, that would be a shock to anyone.

Has that happened? He really hopes not, but that's exactly the sort of shit Crowley's sleeping body might do. He's always cold and he can't stay in his own bed to start with. He'd probably even try and snuggle into him a bit, wrap himself around his solid back and bury his face in those pale curls -

He glares at Aziraphale's door, the keys to his own digging into his hand, because letting that mental image have its way leads him somewhere predictable. It makes him picture slipping his hands into flannel pyjamas, palming the soft warmth of the other man's arse and thighs. Why does he feel like so much of a creep when he's the one who's sleeping through it all?

Dear God, he hasn't shared a bed with anyone for so fucking long. But the very idea that he could have done something like that without knowing makes him want to shut himself in his flat until he's eventually and inevitably eaten by spiders. No wonder the man doesn't want to talk to him. Just because Aziraphale is too nice to lodge a complaint, or badmouth him to all his friends - who are probably all bowtie wearing, book-loving intellectuals who'd never want anything to do with him - that doesn't mean he's happy with this arrangement they have. The arrangement Crowley has forced him into.

But, no, Crowley's seen him smile, seen his nervous hand smoothing and his shy little waves when people from the building pass him in the hall. He's that rare breed of genuinely kind with no ulterior motives. He's probably assuming that Crowley feels embarrassed about the whole thing and he's trying to spare him the humiliation of having to acknowledge any of it out loud. Or worse, he's under the impression that Crowley is annoyed at him for popping into his room and putting him back to bed. 

Christ, that's it, isn't it? He's probably worried that Crowley thinks he's going to snoop (at secrets he doesn't have) or touch his things (which Crowley barely touches himself) or loom in the darkness watching him sleep (they have that one checked off already.)

Hell, he's pretty sure the man had actually made his bed and tidied his bedside cabinet the last time. It wasn't exactly hard to spot, Crowley may be a fan of minimalism, but he's never done a hospital corner in his life.

Crowley should have bought him a bigger hamper.

Something with jam.

Even after stopping for enough coffee to leave him gently vibrating he's still early to work. But that's what you get when you're trying to avoid meeting anyone in the same building as you.

Besides, Beez doesn't really care whether you're early or late as long as you get the work done. Not that Crowley's ever had a problem with that. He tosses his phone down beside him and taps in a few keywords for a search while his computer logs him in like the slow and useless piece of shit that it is.

He doesn't know what's causing the sudden change. He knows the usual causes of sleepwalking, stress, insomnia, illness, change of medication, night disturbances. They could also ramp up the frequency of them if you had a history of it. But Crowley's job isn't stressful, he doesn't even hate it. The worst he could say about it was that it was tedious and dull. He'd be the first to admit that he'd accidentally stumbled himself into a position that pays twice as well for half as much work as his old job. He sleeps fine - or at least he doesn't wake up still tired - he doesn't take any medication and doesn't have any childhood traumas, save breaking both legs falling off a balcony when he was eleven (and that was down to his own stupidity not his sleepwalking.) He had tried medication for it once, which had cut down on the frequency a little, but it had also made it much harder to wake up in the morning. Which was unsettling enough that he'd stopped taking it. Some underlying medical conditions could be the cause of it but he'd been checked for almost all of them at least once.

He'd tried a bunch of recommended tips and tricks over the years. All the way from the medically sound to the medically dubious. Exercising before bed so his body was too tired to wander. Reacting to specific phrases designed to wake you from a deep sleep. Drinking a ton of water before bed to encourage him to wake up if he shifted upright during the night. Tightly tucked-in blankets. Tying himself to the bed frame. Going to bed earlier. Going to bed later. Setting a two hour alarm before he went to sleep. All of which either didn't work, had been more trouble than they were worth, or ended up with him taking three days off work with a badly sprained ankle.

It's something he's always had to put up with in one way or another. No one worried about it too much when he was a kid, because everyone had expected him to grow out, and he just _hadn't_. 

But as far as he knew he'd never actually sought out somewhere or someone specific while sleepwalking. That's the part that's bothering him, that he's opening his front door and just wandering into someone else's flat. No matter how nice the man is, no matter how determined he is to shepherd Crowley back to his own bed, he can't keep doing that.

He's pretty sure it's illegal for one thing.

He doesn't know if asking Aziraphale if he can move back into his old flat would even work at this point. He doesn't want to anyway. He likes the new place. It's brighter for his plants, the water pressure in the shower doesn't suck, and wood-effect flooring is really nice.

He doesn't know what he's going to do.

Maybe he should try those tapes that you listen to overnight, whales or rainfall or something? Or maybe just someone saying 'stay in bed' over and over. Maybe he could get his sexy librarian neighbour to record it for him in that soft voice of his.

He orders food when he gets home from work, because he can't be bothered to cook, and then considers how the hell he's going to fix this.

Crowley needs to try something different. It's worse than it's been for years, at least once a week now. Which would be an annoyance if it was just his own flat where he was crashing around, leaving things open and moving things according to his own subconscious whims. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been forced to go on a scavenger hunt in the morning for his keys. But he's not the only person he's inconveniencing here.

He doesn't want a replay of the night he smashed face-first into a chest of drawers next to his bed - which, sure, he probably should have attached his wrist rather than his ankle to the bed, but hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that.

He'd even tried mixing and matching a couple of things over the years. Most of which did absolutely nothing, or left him angry and wet and in no mood to go back to sleep. It's almost as if part of his subconscious, some slithering restless thing, always feels like it's looking for something and it can't stop until it finds it.

Half of him wants to set up cameras, to find out what the hell he gets up to during the night. The other half of him is too disturbed by the idea to actually go out and buy any. Watching himself get up out of bed and wander around, watching him open the door and leave his flat - there's something deeply unsettling about the idea of actually seeing it happen. Besides, it's not really a solution, it just feels kind of lurid.

Still, he could at least attempt to make sure that getting ready for bed tonight is as stress free as possible. The chairs in front of the door hadn't helped, but maybe he could pile more books on them, or some heavier books. He has that fuck-off astronomy book somewhere around here. At the very least maybe he'd drop it on his foot trying to move it and break his toes. It would serve him right at this point.

It might be a good idea to drink something that wasn't coffee before bed tonight too. He knows that Aziraphale likes tea, Crowley's pretty sure he has some tea in a cupboard somewhere. 

What's the worst that could happen?


	3. The Sleeping Beauty Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit of blood in this chapter, just as a warning.

It hasn't been a good day. A combination of tiredness and eye strain have left Aziraphale unable to enjoy either a book or a documentary he'd been saving about the new discoveries at Pompeii. Instead he's left drinking too many cups of tea, the main lights turned off in favour of small lamps dotted around the flat. He's not sure if it's helping. There's also an ache in his shoulder that's made reaching and turning his head difficult without discomfort. He's not sure if that's tension or something he'd pulled rearranging one of his bookshelves last night when sleep proved too elusive.

He can't help but be reminded that he was nearing fifty and he couldn't hope to function happily forever on two or three hours sleep a night, sometimes less. Eventually the rent - as they say - would come due. He's trying to be sensible, resting as much as he could, plenty of fluid, no bright lights and no distractions. He knows his mood well enough by now not to let himself hope too optimistically for a nap. But the pretence of one has sometimes helped him in the past.

It's quiet enough that he hears the faint click of his front door, then the not half as faint creak of it being nudged open.

He can't help but feel a moment of relief at the idea of a break from a lonely and rather depressing contemplation of his own mortality. Then immediately feels very silly, because Crowley isn't coming to visit him of his own free will, and there will be no conversation, or smiles, or glasses of wine shared between friends. All things that Aziraphale hasn't exactly found himself enjoying in abundance for the last few years.

He sighs and sets down his tea, rising from his chair to retrieve his neighbour.

The first thing he sees is the disarray of Crowley's red hair above the long, fragile-looking length of his neck, then the subtle shape of his shoulder blades beneath a tightly fitted black t-shirt. It's bunched a little beneath the arms and creased from sleep, exposing a slice of pale hips and the base of his spine, both of which Aziraphale tells himself sharply to stop admiring. The pyjama trousers are familiar, a deep burgundy that's almost black in the low light, leading down to Crowley's bare feet -

There's half a bloody footprint on Aziraphale's carpet, another between the living room and the kitchen, and then two more by his front door.

"Oh good heavens, Crowley, what did you do to your poor foot?" He hurries to catch Crowley's arm before he can sway his way deeper into the flat, his strange yellow-brown eyes only half open.

The red smears aren't excessive but they're worrying enough that Aziraphale doesn't think he should be walking around on whatever he's done to himself. He turns the other man as quickly as he dares, and then urges him back out the way he'd come. 

When he's awake Crowley has an oddly swaying walk, as if he's always on the verge of tipping over and needs to attract as much attention as possible in the hope that someone will provide assistance. Aziraphale had actually assumed it was affected the first time he saw him. So he'd been very surprised to discover that his gait while asleep was just a softer, more easy version of it. A gentle sort of side to side motion, which seems almost designed to encourage someone guiding him to reach down and hold his hips.

Aziraphale is going to do nothing of the sort.

"I think I'm going to have to wake you up today," he tells him instead. "You'll want to have a look at that, maybe put something on it." Perhaps he'd trodden on something sharp in the hall?

Aziraphale pockets his keys and pulls his front door shut, then herds Crowley across the hall, where there are two more footprints but no sharp objects to be seen. Which raises the worrying possibility that it might still be in his foot. He leads the sleeping man into his flat, to find more prints - the red of them sharper and wetter - across his wooden floor, and then more heading out of the darkness of his bedroom. Aziraphale gives Crowley a reassuring pat and leaves him briefly to pop his head in.

He spies the culprit immediately. There's a smashed mug on the floor, a pool of cold brown liquid around it which he would have guessed instinctively was coffee, since Crowley seems to drink the stuff like water. But it appears to actually be tea instead.

"Oh, you had a bit of an accident on the way out of bed, didn't you? Stay there for a moment." He leaves Crowley swaying and shuffling while he puts the small lamp on and picks up the shattered pieces of mug that spread out in an arc, suggesting Crowley had knocked it rather forcefully to the floor. He carefully stacks them and sets them on the cabinet by the bed, being aware of sharp edges. Then he nips into the bathroom for some paper to wipe the cold spill up with. He deals with the footprints as well, so neither of are in danger of tracking through them.

"I'm sorry, but you can't go wading through this on the way to bed."

He tosses the paper in the bin in the corner of the room, and then encourages Crowley to sit down on the dishevelled bedding. They say that you should try and wake someone who's sleepwalking in a familiar environment, somewhere they feel safe so they don't have to deal with too much of a shock. Though, to be honest, Aziraphale's not entirely sure how to go about it. Crowley has already proven himself somewhat immune to loud noises in this state. A gentle shaking seems to be the best place to start. He curls one hand around Crowley's upper arm, the other over his shoulder and gives a careful squeezing shake.

"Crowley?" There's no reaction but a slow rock of movement, the breathing still slow and steady.

He tries it again, this time a touch harder. It would be very easy to press his other hand to the no-doubt warm plane of Crowley's jaw. To gently urge him into consciousness. But Aziraphale is very aware that he's still invading the man's personal space. That his permission to be here is still rather nebulous and uncertain. He doesn't enjoy the thought of waking him at all, but it's necessary.

"Anthony? Please wake up, this is important."

"Angel," Crowley says, with the slow and broken rhythm of someone who might be stirring.

"Please wake up, you've cut your foot and I don't know how bad it is. I'm going to need rather more of your cooperation than you're currently capable of."

"Angel," Crowley says again but there's a raspy quality to the word that feels almost awake.

"Almost there, a little more conscious for me please," Aziraphale encourages.

Crowley's sleepy eyes drift and then focus on his hair, the previous softness of his mouth pulling itself into a confused frown. The rest of his face quickly follows. All at once the man is awake, his narrow limbs not quite so soft, his eyes sharper without their customary sunglasses. The pale brown of the iris is almost a honey-yellow and Aziraphale realises that he's never seen them from so close. He hurriedly draws his hand away from Crowley's arm, the muscle now flexing and alive beneath his fingers.

"What are you - why are you - ah." Crowley winces, his left foot shifting on the floor.

"I'm terribly sorry, there was a broken mug on your bedroom floor, and you were bleeding," Aziraphale explains. "It seemed best to bring you back here and wake you up. I didn't want you to walk around on it too much without having a look for yourself."

Crowley lifts his foot, levering the thing upside down onto his lap like the man has no joints in his hip at all. The bottom has a ring of dried blood almost to the heel and there are two cuts beneath the toes, messy and coated with dirt, but thankfully they don't look too deep. 

"Shit," Crowley says. Aziraphale gets the impression that the pain of the injury has awoken as well. "Can't believe I slept through that."

"Do you have a first aid kit?"

Crowley blinks at him, and Aziraphale takes a moment to wonder whether he's actually as awake as he seems. He has no experience with people coming out of a sleepwalking phase, but being roused from such a deep sleep is rarely pleasant. As if to confirm as much Crowley pulls a long hand over his face, as if nudge his brain into action.

"Ah - I mean, not much of one. But there's some Dettol and plasters and stuff in the bathroom cabinet, bandage maybe. There might be a support bandage too." Crowley doesn't sound certain but Aziraphale decides to hope for the best.

"Do you mind?" he asks.

Crowley blinks again, before it seems to register that Aziraphale is asking him for permission to retrieve it.

"Yeah, sure - but you don't have to do that - shit, did I bleed all over your floor? I'm sorry." Crowley's grimace looks horrified and Aziraphale finds himself patting his knee like he's a small child, much to his horror. He makes himself stop.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. It was a bit of a shock that's all." Aziraphale rises and heads into the bathroom. Crowley's flat is a mirrored version of his own, so it's easy enough to find what he's looking for. There are no cotton pads or balls so tissue will have to do.

"You really don't have to do any of this, it was my own stupid fault." Crowley's voice is still sleep-rough, the smoky grate of it pleasant to listen to. Aziraphale sinks to his knees in front of him and gestures for permission. Crowley looks surprised, before waving a 'go ahead' at him. "I mean, I'm the one that disturbed you in the middle of the night -" he takes a moment to look at the clock and winces. "Jesus, make that morning."

"Oh, it's really no bother," Aziraphale assures him. "I wasn't in the middle of anything. I'm rarely asleep myself, to be honest." It occurs to him that Crowley may just be being polite. He looks at where he's already pulled the man's bare foot onto his thighs, long toes looking strangely vulnerable against his tan trousers. "Unless you'd rather I didn't? I understand that we don't actually know each other very well. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Crowley's face is unreadable for a moment, eyebrows lifted, mouth forming a word and then seeming to change its mind halfway through. He shakes his head instead.

"No, it's fine, I don't mind, it's just - well, it feels weird you down there trying to fix it, since it's really my fault. I should have been more careful."

"It was an accident," Aziraphale reminds him, drawing the supplies he'd collected closer to his knee. "Well, two accidents I suppose, both of which happened while you were asleep." He's trying for reassuring, since Crowley clearly thinks he's putting Aziraphale to a great deal of trouble. "I'm happy to help, really. It's quite alright."

Crowley blinks slowly, expression surprised. His toes scrunch gently against Aziraphale's thigh. "I'm going to get blood on your trousers," he argues, though it seems something of a last ditch effort.

"I'm more concerned with making sure that you're not badly hurt," Aziraphale tells him. He wraps a hand around Crowley's foot, which is a little cold from its night-time journey, and it flexes in his grip, almost instinctively. The tendons stretch and the toes spread against the curve of his hand. He's struck all at once by how strangely intimate this is, holding another person's bare foot.

"Sorry, it's dirty, I know." Crowley's mouth pulls into a grimace when Aziraphale turns it to see better, and reveals that the bottom is indeed a bit grubby. The hallway between their flats is something of a minefield of dirt, pet hair and odd bits of fluff. All of which will need to be cleaned out of the wound.

"Don't worry about that either, I'm more concerned about fixing you up right now."

"You wouldn't believe what I've walked through over the years," Crowley mutters. "I'd probably get your trousers dirty even if I wasn't bleeding everywhere." He pulls a face immediately after he says it. As if he hadn't wanted to draw more attention to exactly what he might be holding in his lap.

"I don't suppose you have much choice in the matter," Aziraphale offers sympathetically, upending the bottle of Dettol onto a folded square of tissue. He dabs the cuts to see how bad they are beneath the coating of dried blood, and whether he can spot anything still inside them. He's as careful as he can be, but Crowley still pulls a face when he disinfects the larger cut. He apologises, then again when there's a quiet hiss. 

It takes a few more tips of the bottle to clean the wounds to Aziraphale's satisfaction, which is long enough for the strange tension over the whole situation to gradually break into a quiet sort of acceptance.

"It's not exactly the first time I've injured myself in the night. Or woken up to something bruised or bleeding." Crowley looks embarrassed, Aziraphale doesn't know why, it's not as if he can do anything about it if it all happens when he's sleeping.

"It never wakes you up?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

"You'd think it would," Crowley grumbles. "But, no, I never feel it 'til the morning - well there was one time, I tied myself to the bed frame and nearly took my foot off at the ankle getting out of bed, that one definitely woke me up. Well, it was more the crashing face first into a chest of drawers that did the waking."

Aziraphale stops dabbing to offer a shocked look. "Good lord, were you alright?"

Crowley nods. "Yeah, I had a pretty bad sprain from it, and a few colourful bruises. I shifted the bed three feet as well. But I was fine in a few days."

"I'm very glad to hear that." Aziraphale does one last pass to make sure the injured area is clean, then pats it dry, before using the small bandage on it. "It doesn't look too bad. I think the shards of mug went in and then popped out again, they've left you a few nasty cuts but they've mostly stopped bleeding. I think if you keep them clean and dry for a few days then they'll heal up fine."

"Socks then," Crowley says, with a nod towards where his foot is still held in Aziraphale's hand. "Which I do own, I promise. I'll have to take them off at night though. The wood floors in here get a bit treacherous otherwise, especially for me."

Aziraphale very nearly says something about the fact that his flat is all carpets and Crowley is more than welcome to stay with him for a while. Before he tells himself not to be so silly. They're still basically strangers. He collects the tissues together and wraps a hand round Crowley's ankle to move it.

"Right, shit, sorry, didn't mean to use you as a foot rest."

"That's quite alright, if you give me a moment I'll put the support bandage on it too." It probably doesn't need it but Aziraphale has had so few opportunities to take care of anyone and he finds he's enjoying the chance to fuss a little. Crowley doesn't seem to mind. There's a curious patience to his expression, and maybe a touch of amused indulgence. Aziraphale scrunches the elasticated tube between his hands. Luckily it is a leg one, possibly left over from when Crowley said he'd sprained his ankle. He never mentioned when that had happened. "This isn't really what they're meant for, but it might keep the wounds closed and dry for a bit. I don't know if you're going back to bed -" He stops, that seems a bit personal.

But Crowley is already eyeing the clock - that now says ten past four - one hand rubbing at his rumpled hair.

"Don't know if I could get to sleep again, to be honest. Almost doesn't seem worth the bother."

"I didn't find any paracetamol in the cupboard," Aziraphale says apologetically. "I wanted to bring you some."

Crowley shakes his head. "Painkillers don't really do anything for me, so I don't tend to bother."

They look at each other for an awkward moment, and then Crowley is slowly - almost reluctantly - pulling his foot out of Aziraphale's lap.

"Thanks, and sorry again, about the disturbance, and your trousers. I'll try and -" He stops and sighs. "I've never had much luck getting it to stop, to be honest. I have tried."

"It's really no bother," Aziraphale reassures him, which is nothing but the truth. "I'm often awake and unexpected company is - well I suppose it's not intentional but it prods me out of my own thoughts. I don't mind, really."

Crowley looks surprised, and his hazel eyes are really very striking. Aziraphale doesn't know why he always covers them. He finds that he's smiling up at the man, and perhaps it's a hair past polite and friendly. He chides himself for it, since he is, after all, still attempting to provide medical assistance in a stranger's bedroom at four in the morning.

"Anyway, I mustn't keep you." He pushes himself to his feet while Crowley makes something like a protesting noise in the back of his throat.

"Ah, I could make you a coffee, or something," he offers. "As a thank you."

Aziraphale doesn't like the thought of watching Crowley hobble around on his injured foot, certainly not on his account. But he can't pretend that the idea of being invited in to stay, to sit with Crowley for a while and fall into conversation over hot drinks isn't appealing. He thinks that the man could use some rest off his feet for a bit though. He hopes that perhaps they could introduce themselves properly, maybe some other time? He would like that rather a lot. He finds himself backing up with a handful of packaging and old tissues, as if he might take them home with him. He hurriedly leans to put them in the bin.

"No, no, I won't trouble you any further."

For a second Crowley almost looks disappointed, but then he's nodding like Aziraphale has made a good point. "Sure, it's late - I mean early, thanks for the help, and the foot. Just - it's really good of you. And sorry, again." Crowley looks like he can't decide whether to wince or laugh, and Aziraphale can't help but find him worryingly endearing. It was so much easier when he was simply the intimidating and abrasive neighbour...that he found incredibly attractive.

Crowley awake may be a far more dangerous thing than he was prepared for.

"My door is always open," Aziraphale says with a laugh. He thinks that was an attempt at a joke, he hadn't intended it to be. He has no idea where it came from. He'd be more embarrassed about it, but it makes Crowley smile - oh, and he has a very good smile. A crooked thing that spreads to every part of his face. Aziraphale bumps into the door frame trying to back out of the room, and decides that's quite enough embarrassment for the morning.

He slips his way out of Crowley's flat and pulls the door shut behind him. And if he's wearing a ridiculously large smile on his way back to the safety of his own flat, well, there's no one around to see it.


	4. The Waking World

Crowley is definitely not going to go back to sleep.

Instead, he's sitting on his couch at five in the morning staring at his bandaged foot and holding a cup of coffee that's now probably too cold to drink. It doesn't even really hurt that much, it's just a vague throb that tells him he's done something stupid, and to maybe not go for any long walks any time soon. All things considered, he could have done a lot worse to himself than treading on a smashed mug in the middle of the night.

Though, to be honest, it might have been worth it.

Aziraphale Fell.

That soft pillow of a man appearing like something out of a dream, with one of his warm hands folded round Crowley's arm and the other resting just on the curve where shoulder became neck. A gentle grip of fingers that had squeezed Crowley all the way out of sleep. It's been a very long time since he'd had anything so nice to wake up to.

He'd been smiling while Crowley tried to focus, disoriented and half convinced he was still asleep. Until he'd registered that - ow - and also no one should look that adorable leaning over you at four in the morning, smelling like comfort and fancy tea and hours-old faded cologne. Crowley wouldn't have minded if the whole thing had been a particularly good dream, wouldn't have minded spending a while longer in it - minus the gruesome foot injury. He's had a few of those dreams where his neighbour's concerned, not explicit but definitely suggestive. He's woken up with his face smashed into the pillow with half-fading images of that stretch of a smile that never quite looks real turned in his direction. Or those nervous hands sliding up the bare skin of his spine. Crowley's own fingers testing if that pale hair was as soft as it looked, not even trying to resist the urge to press his face into it. Maybe even warm hands sliding round Crowley's waist and encouraging him to curl in and do exactly that.

But, no, it had been his very real, very lovely neighbour with his impossible hair and his bowtie and his dimples and eyes and soft voice, holding Crowley's gross bleeding foot like some sort of reverse Cinderella.

Humiliating. As if sleepwalking wasn't bad enough he's now proving that he's perfectly capable of horribly injuring himself at the same time. To make it all worse he'd just sat there like an idiot while Aziraphale knelt in front of him in those suddenly very tight trousers, material stretched across the most beautiful thighs Crowley has ever seen, while he tipped his foot to assess the damage. So full of kindness and calm that Crowley couldn't have protested if he'd wanted to. Then the man had put those big hands all over Crowley's ankle and instep and toes. Carefully washing and disinfecting and bandaging him.

He can't remember half of what he'd said this morning, something idiotic probably. But he thinks, if pressed, that he could describe Aziraphale's hands exactly.

Crowley had never had a foot thing before, but he was seriously considering whether he had one now. He still has half a sense memory of that angel of a man spreading his toes, thumb gliding down the sensitive arch.

He might have a problem.

He's also starting to suspect that there might be a very simple explanation for his repeated wandering across the hall and into Aziraphale's flat. Crowley hasn't had sex in a very long time, hasn't had anyone in his bed for even longer. His subconscious seems determined to change that, to get him out of his cold lonely flat, to take the initiative and find someone to curl up to.

Damn it, now he's going to think about that soft voice purring things in his ear while he has a wank in the shower, he knows he is. He's not even going to feel bad about it, it's too inevitable.

Alright, maybe he's going to feel a little bit bad about it.

He's a terrible neighbour.

-

What seemed like a good idea in the shower - or leaning against the tiled wall feeling the trembling echoes of orgasm - doesn't seem half as clever when he's hovering outside the door of Aziraphale's flat at half past eight in the morning, dressed nicely enough that he worries that it looks obvious. He'd tried for appealing and decided it looked like he was trying too hard. Then he'd tried for casual and failed halfway there. His bandaged foot hurts now he's been up and about on it for a few hours, and the thin material of his sock is doing absolutely nothing to protect it from sliding around recklessly in his suddenly uncomfortable boot.

Coffee. He's going to invite Aziraphale out for coffee. He has the perfect excuse even. He was wounded due to his own stupidity and Aziraphale spent a good portion of the early morning cleaning up his mess - literally. Crowley owes him coffee, coffee is owed, it's the least he could do. He wants to be a good neighbour. He wants Aziraphale to have memories of him which aren't just unsettling night-time invasions and the occasional awkward moment in the hallway. He wants the man to think indecent things about him. It's only fair.

He raises his hand to knock.

Then doesn't.

Because, no, he can't make it look like an excuse or Aziraphale is going to wave him off and insist that it was nothing and of course he doesn't need any sort of payment for services rendered. He was just being a good neighbour, just helping Crowley out. Crowley's the one who's going to add transactional favours into their relationship before they're even properly friends. He's pretty sure that's going to torpedo his chances of getting the man to agree to a non-coffee date in the future. Which he's fairly invested in getting. He definitely wants there to be the option of a non-coffee date, or a not-just-coffee date anyway.

He probably doesn't even drink coffee, he probably only drinks tea. Crowley's plan is doomed before it's even started.

His foot really does hurt.

Crowley has asked people out for drinks before, coffee being one of them. Granted it's been a while and he'd been told in the past that sometimes he played it so cool that people weren't even sure if he was actually interested. Which, no, it was just because Crowley is very good at smashing his nerves down tightly enough that he could coast through any awkwardness or rejection like the coolest man alive. No vulnerable insides to be seen here. 

But Aziraphale has already seen him at his most vulnerable, at the most vulnerable a person could be, a dozen times or more by now. Aziraphale probably knows more about him than most people he'd slept with. How is he supposed to play it cool after that?

The door to the other flat opens unexpectedly, surprising Crowley into a sort of half-knocking flail. Which he attempts to recover from by turning the gesture into a wave.

"Oh, hey, great timing, I was just about to knock." He sounds like an idiot already, and possibly also a liar.

But Aziraphale smiles like he's actually pleased to see him, mouth turning up easily, and he has very nice teeth. Crowley likes them more than he's liked anyone's teeth. In fact, he can't remember ever noticing anyone's teeth before - well obviously he's noticed that they had teeth, but not specifically, not in an appreciative way. Feet. Teeth. He really does have a problem.

"Crowley, how are you feeling? Is your foot any better?"

The foot, right. "Yeah, it's good, it feels better today, thanks again."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it." Aziraphale smiles wide enough to show his dimples, the fluff of his hair pale and soft where the sun hits it through the window. Crowley knows, he does, the world doesn't have to rub it in. "Did you want something?"

He did, God help him.

"Right, so, yeah." He realises he's shoved his hands into his pockets and makes himself drag them out again. "Let me take you out for coffee - or tea - you've been really good about everything. I mean, you've kind of gone above and beyond neighbourly duties at this point. What with the medical attention and everything." Crowley gestures at his foot, as if Aziraphale might have forgotten his rude awakening this morning, as if they haven't already mentioned it twice. "As a thank you - not just as a thank you - if we're going to be, y'know, I feel like we should be friends." He hopes that doesn't sound reluctant. He's trying very hard not to give off the air of someone who's too cool to care here. But he's been playing it that way for so long it's almost a habit. He wants to be enthusiastic, he wants to seem interested. He remembers that this is how you made new friends, though it's been a while since he did that too. "I'd like us to be friends." The most mismatched friends, granted. Aziraphale in his bow tie and waistcoat and fancy brogues. Crowley with his black on black, sunglasses and face tattoo.

Aziraphale smiles at him, it's wide but it still looks surprised and a little nervous. Crowley can't help but feel emboldened by it.

"Oh, you don't have to go to any trouble. Really, I'm happy to help."

That's kind of the point here though, isn't it? Crowley's fairly sure this man is too good for him. But he can't help himself.

How insistent is too insistent? "I'd like to buy you coffee, or tea, a croissant, whatever you like. I mean it doesn't have to be this morning, if you're busy. I feel like I caught you on your way out, didn't I? We could always rain check it for another time." He doesn't want to veto the idea of coffee - or tea, damn it - completely if it's a bad time for him. He'll just leave the idea out there. For Aziraphale to accept at his leisure.

Aziraphale fusses with the handle of his bag. "Tea would be nice this morning, I will admit." He seems happy about it, if still a little nervous. Which Crowley thinks might be a good sign. It's not just him, he's not the only one who's interested - in making friends. "I don't want to put you out though."

"Nah, I was heading out anyway, thought I'd invite you. Really, it's the least I could do." Crowley bites down on anything else. Reminds himself not to make it a transactional sort of thing. Just taking a new friend out for breakfast.

A friend he's incredibly attracted to.

Breakfast.

-

Aziraphale isn't quite sure how he'd managed to agree to go to breakfast with Crowley.

He'd opened the door and the other man had been right outside, all unexpected smile, perfect hair and sunglasses that he'd left perched low enough that Aziraphale could see the colour of his eyes in the light of the hallway.

To be honest, Crowley could have said anything and he probably would have agreed. Which isn't exactly the best sign. The very last thing he wants to do is make the interest he has in the other man obvious. Aziraphale would like them to be friends. Not simply because they've fallen into some strange dance of sleepwalker and night-time assistant. He doesn't have many friends in the city, he doesn't have many friends at all, he thinks it would be nice.

Crowley had looked so pleased when he agreed, and then he'd slipped in beside him naturally, like they go for walks together all the time. Normally Aziraphale is happy to talk about anything, he relishes an opportunity to learn new things, and he has a passing knowledge in a wide variety of topics. He genuinely enjoys being enthusiastic about other people's interests and hobbies. But his nerves are making the search for a conversation starter something of a challenge this morning. Luckily Crowley fills the silence, gently encouraging Aziraphale to eventually offer some thoughts of his own as they stroll their way through the city together. Crowley heads in a direction Aziraphale rarely has cause to go, until they reach a small cafe just putting tables and chairs outside.

Aziraphale isn't sure that they're open, but the woman smiles and waves Crowley inside. A familiar place then? Somewhere Crowley can be considered a regular? Somewhere he's more than happy for them to be seen together. Aziraphale can't help but be reassured by the idea of being taken somewhere Crowley enjoys himself. It somehow makes his friendly overtures feel more genuine.

The only outings Aziraphale has had in the last five years were the occasional lunch with Marjorie, a few trips to visit Anathema, who lives in Tadfield and rarely gets into the city, and one fairly disastrous dinner date with a fellow bibliophile who turned out to be rather more _intense_ in person than he'd been via the occasional message.

One large coffee, no milk, one sugar. One tea with milk and no sugar, and a raspberry danish that he's lured into after Crowley catches him looking at the display cases. He accepts, and gets a smile from the other man that he'd never seen before and has no defence against.

"You looked so happy at the sight of it," Crowley offers, lifting their cups and following Aziraphale to a table.

It's just a friendly breakfast, Aziraphale reminds himself. Nothing to get excited about. He'll make a complete fool of himself if he's not careful.

Crowley seems content to chat while Aziraphale uses his raspberry danish as an excuse to be a little less verbose than he might be. Mostly because he's trying very hard not to reveal how much he's enjoying the shine of Crowley's hair in the early sunlight, or the way he's sprawled in his chair with some combination of elegance and utter disregard for the human spinal column. He has long hands, with nails that show the memory of some sort of dark polish, and one of those interesting faces that you find yourself having to look at twice, and then deciding it has some perfect proportion that you found yourself spellbound by. Also, a scatter of freckles that make themselves so delightful in natural light that Aziraphale finds himself worried that his appreciation of them must be horribly obvious.

Crowley really can't be much younger than Aziraphale, but there's a flavour to his angles and gentle lines that leaves him seeming so. A mischievous edge to his smile, a brightness to his eyes when the glasses slip low enough to see.

Eventually there's no breakfast danish left and Aziraphale finds himself bravely deciding to share a little about himself. Then more than a little. Then, after Crowley gets them refills, he ends up sharing several scandalous stories about how he'd wrestled his father's antique shop out from under his brother's nose.

"Gabriel liked the idea of the shop, and its success, but he had no interest in any of the work, or the research, or the connections necessary to establish a consensus on difficult pieces. He made several more disastrous appraisals, and a few promises that he couldn't keep. I believe he's in America now."

Aziraphale wishes Gabriel success, he really does. But he'd like it very much if he could do it away from him. He could be something of a bully.

"Sounds like the best place for him, no offence."

Aziraphale laughs, because he can't help but agree. "Oh, none taken, that's a sentiment that I've heard before."

"Older brother?" Crowley asks.

"No, younger." Aziraphale takes a mouthful of tea while Crowley seems to consider this new information. "But being the face of the business suited him a lot better than me, I have to admit. I have an excellent memory and I'm quite happy doing inventory for hours, but I've never been very good at managing the front of the shop, interacting with the public, or of letting go of the pieces if I'm being honest. Marjorie and Newton are excellent at that sort of thing, they're both very friendly and personable people."

"Oh, I don't know," Crowley says, his attention suddenly strangely focused. "I'm finding you very personable."

Aziraphale is surprised into a smile at the compliment. "Likewise, Anthony, may I call you Anthony?"

Crowley grimaces. "To be honest, I prefer Crowley," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Anthony was my dad's name, and it's never really felt like mine." He pulls a face over his coffee cup. "I don't think anyone who actually likes me calls me Anthony. Might have something to do with it too."

Aziraphale immediately decides to do no such thing unless told otherwise.

"I'm aware that my own name is rather unique," he offers in exchange.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, curling every syllable in a way that leaves him feeling more than a little warm. "Sounds like an angel."

Aziraphale spends a moment coughing when a sip of tea goes down the wrong way. Crowley makes apologetic noises and hands him paper napkins. It occurs to him that Crowley has no way of knowing the relevance of that word. Which seems so important to his sleeping self.

"No, no, you're quite correct that it was originally the name of an angel. My mother had - I don't want to say virtuous hopes for us, but I do think she secretly hoped at least one of us would join the church."

"You or Gabriel, eh?" Crowley looks amused and Aziraphale can't help but be delighted by what feels so much like the teasing of a friend. Talking to Crowley is turning out to be far easier than he'd expected.

"Yes, I don't suppose she was too surprised when nothing came of it."

Crowley finishes his coffee and pushes it aside. "You can ask questions if you want, about the sleepwalking. I'm not really sensitive about it, not really, it's been a long time. It's more just sort of a -" he seems to be searching for a word, but doesn't find it, offers a shrug instead. "A thing that happens to me, a thing I've always had to deal with."

Aziraphale is wiping his mouth with a napkin and hurriedly shakes his head. "Oh, please, only if you want to talk about it. I'd hate for you to feel like you had to share personal details just because I happen to be a little involved."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "I'd say you're a bit more than 'a little involved.' I'd like to point out that you're tucking me into bed three or four nights a month."

Aziraphale can't help the way his traitorous cheeks heat under that particular phrasing. Which he feels is a bit much, even if it is technically true. "I wouldn't phrase it quite like that."

"I think you even made my bed at one point," Crowley continues. "There were hospital corners. "

Aziraphale winces, and decides not to share that he's done that more than once. "I am terribly sorry about that. You'd pulled the entire sheet out onto the floor and it seemed rude to -" he gestures helplessly. "Put you back without ensuring that you'd have something in the way of a restful sleep."

Something of the teasing slides away and Crowley simply looks fond, in a way that Aziraphale tells himself fiercely not to read anything into.

"I don't mind, really. I appreciate it. I'm glad that there's someone who's kind about it all. It's been happening since I was a kid, but people haven't always...been kind about it."

Aziraphale can imagine, people are so quick to point out differences, to make them weaknesses and press accordingly. He listens while Crowley talks, while he offers up some of his history, and his night-time wanderings that never stopped. While there are experiences which Aziraphale is certain must have been frightening Crowley tells them in a way that seems to invite amusement. Aziraphale feels comfortable enough to share his own trouble with sleep, the way it's been so much worse over the last few years, mostly to reassure the man that he's not dragging him out of bed every time, that he's often working at his desk when he breaks his way inside.

Crowley winces. "Oh God, I am breaking in, aren't I? I'm sorry. I'm a sleepwalking burglar."

"You're not technically stealing anything," Aziraphale hurries to reassure him. But then he remembers a few weeks ago and he can't resist adding "- well, there was the time you tried to take a cushion back into your flat with you."

Crowley's eyes widen. "I did what?"

"I think you thought it was a pillow you were taking back to bed," Aziraphale explains. "I did try to convince you to leave it but you were very insistent."

"I didn't?" Crowley looks half amused and half horrified.

"You did. But I think that it was heavier than you were expecting, and you dropped it in the hall." He'd found it very entertaining at the time, but it feels unkind to share that part. The smile is difficult to fight though.

"I'm a criminal," Crowley decides. "You should have me arrested."

Aziraphale laughs, and he can't help but realise how much he's enjoying himself. How much he would rather like to talk to this man again - every day perhaps - until Crowley gets entirely sick of him.


	5. And I Followed You Home

Aziraphale is still half-asleep when the sound of knocking somewhere in his flat has him groggily pushing himself up on an elbow.

He's always been a light sleeper and it doesn't take much of a disturbance to tug him awake. It's rare for him to be asleep at this time at all, but it's been a good week for him and he'd managed almost four hours the night before. So he'd changed into his pyjamas and gotten into bed a little after midnight - granted with more hope than expectation. Sleep must have claimed him eventually though, a quick look at the clock confirms it's been almost two and a half hours.

The mysterious knock comes again, and he pushes the duvet back and slips out into the chill of the room, bare feet soundless on the floor as he eases his bedroom door open.

Crowley had been having a relatively peaceful week too. A large project at work had been completed early and he'd been taking a long weekend for himself. Something Aziraphale had suggested originally, and he'd been surprised and delighted when Crowley agreed that he deserved a break. They'd even met for lunch yesterday, which they've taken to doing a few times a week, with no sign that he was growing bored of Aziraphale's company. Quite the opposite in fact. Crowley seems more relaxed, the lean of him less defensive, and Aziraphale is enjoying the way it looks on him. He truly hadn't expected to find himself having to take the man back to bed this week.

Of course, he realises that there's still the slim possibility that he is actually being burgled this time.

That would be something of an irony.

He'd left the reading lamp on, so Crowley's slow-moving shape can be clearly seen just to the left of his bookcase. He looks so lost, skinny arms hanging from the loose sleeves of his t-shirt, its fraying collar a curve across the vulnerable base of his neck. Aziraphale shuffles over, flicking the light on as he goes.

"Didn't expect to see you tonight, my dear. I thought you were having a rather peaceful week. Did you have things on your mind that were bothering you?" He heads over and gently cups a hand around Crowley's elbow, the angle of it cool enough to suggest he'd been out of his bed for a while. Crowley stops shuffling forward and gives a long quiet sigh, as if he'd simply been waiting to be found. "There we are, you don't really want to be stumbling around in the dark, do you?"

Crowley sways gently in his grip, head turning towards him, as if he knows someone is there. Aziraphale can't help but notice the way the angles of his face are so much softer when it's not frowning at the world. The tight set of his mouth always seems to be expecting an unpleasant surprise. Here, in the quiet of the morning, his body is completely relaxed. Aziraphale can't help but wish Crowley could have this more during the day as well. His eyes are mostly open, and Aziraphale can see them slowly moving about the room, never fixing on anything real for long. He can't help but be curious what Crowley finds to look at, and whether it takes the place of something he's dreaming about. Though he remembers that sleepwalking isn't supposed to happen during REM sleep. It's a product of deep sleep, even if Crowley always looks like he's caught halfway through a dream.

"I always appreciate the visit but you're going to get cold. I understand you can't go to bed in a dressing gown, but maybe some thicker pyjamas. I think your aesthetic could survive it." Though he's sure the man would protest. God forbid he allow flannel to invade his wardrobe. Aziraphale can't help the breath of a laugh. "I suppose I know what to buy you for Christmas, don't I?"

"Angel," Crowley says quietly, a satisfied sort of discovery in his voice.

As if he'd found -

Oh.

There's a strong possibility that _he's_ the angel that Crowley has been sleepily referencing. A thought that leaves him surprised and more than a little flustered for a moment. Until he realises that perhaps it was obvious all along and he'd just been refusing to make the connection. 

Crowley had mentioned that his name sounded angelic at their first breakfast together. But it had never occurred to him that he might have held that opinion from the beginning. That it might have been memorable enough to stick in his subconscious. Perhaps it also had something to do with the colouring of his hair, or some of the iconography Crowley had seen on the books in his flat? Perhaps that was even why he'd been so strangely fixated on coming here after he'd moved across the hall. Some imagery from his dreams drawing him back to the place where he knows Aziraphale resides.

"It's odd what the mind can find to fixate on," Aziraphale says eventually, feeling strangely touched. "My hair is very pale, I know, and you wouldn't be the first to make the connection. I was the focus of a fair amount of teasing for it as a child, among other things. Suffice to say, they did not mean 'cherub' kindly, I can tell you that. But I'm sure you saw your fair share of unpleasantness too." It seems like a good guess, so much of Crowley's sharpness feels defensive, a learned necessity that could easily be mistaken for rudeness. He was guilty of assuming as much when he barely knew the man.

Aziraphale is going to choose to believe that Crowley's subconscious means the association kindly. The word has sounded like nothing less than an endearment at times. 

He takes in the untidy fall of auburn hair across Crowley's forehead and the liquid brown-gold eyes. He looks until his conscience tells him sharply that he should stop. Then he slides his hand down to Crowley's wrist, intent on leading him back to bed.

Crowley hums quietly and resists the careful tug. "You should kiss me." The words are a sleepy purr. "You should. You should."

Aziraphale goes very still, almost letting Crowley's arm slip out of his hand. But a quick check of his face confirms that he's still asleep, his face soft, eyes half-lidded. He could be forgiven, he thinks, for taking a moment to absorb that soft request, the fading edges of a thought that had probably escaped at Aziraphale's touch. The curve of his hand around Crowley's wrist is perfectly innocent, but he knows that sensations could trickle their way through, acquire meaning, stoke desires. It's understandable, what with the strange intimacy that they can't help but share on these quiet nights were Crowley slips into his home. Their new familiarity with each other. Their fondness. Aziraphale can't help but - not pretend, he'd never be so inappropriate or disrespectful - but perhaps daydream, briefly, guiltily, that the bed Crowley had left had been his own.

You could dream a lot of things without wanting them, he knows that. Though Aziraphale has never had the talent for it, he's never had the imagination. There are only ever snatches, pieces, his mind barely willing to settle into unconsciousness at all.

He holds his breath for a moment, wondering if more words will be forthcoming, or whether such a coherent sentence means that Crowley is close to waking. But there's nothing further, just a gentle stillness. Aziraphale can't pretend that he isn't disappointed, that he wouldn't rather like to hear those words offered in his direction. The breathy, curious suggestion in them. Only this time with something of a fully conscious expression to go with them.

"If you ever ask me that when you're not asleep, perhaps I will," he says quietly. "I'll confess I've thought about it - about you -" He can't say it, not out loud, not when Crowley is here, whether he's currently sleeping or not. He can't admit that he'd thought about Crowley leaning in after one of their lunches, pushing his sunglasses up and tilting so he could press that fine, laughing mouth to Aziraphale's. Or swaying in and then stopping a breath away, wearing that devilish smile, as if daring Aziraphale to be the one to kiss him first. Or simply leaning in close, until the press of his body strayed past companionable and became something affectionate. A grasp of hands, a warm laugh into the skin of his cheek.

Yes, Aziraphale has thought about it, more times than he could count.

"I've thought about it." The confession is barely a whisper. Aziraphale is afraid to wake him now, for the first time. "I'm not sure you'd be terribly surprised about that. You are quite handsome, and you know it, you terrible man. But I'm a little afraid to hope that you might be interested - not the way I would like. I've never been very good at casual encounters."

Crowley blinks sleepily towards the kitchen, as if he wants to wander deeper into the flat and explore. Aziraphale sighs and gets a slightly firmer grip on him.

"Come on, back to bed."

"You should," Crowley murmurs.

"Oh, yes, I probably should, if I was a braver man maybe I would."

He listens to the soft sound that Crowley's feet make as he takes him out through the hall and towards his own much less cramped space. It feels a bit odd to be wearing his own pyjamas for once, to be out in the main hall in tartan flannel and bare feet that have never actually touched the slippery tiles of the floor here. It's as if he'd left the house horribly unprepared for the world. He thinks perhaps he finally understands a small part of Crowley's frustration. This softer version of himself, who drinks tea and reads mysteries while tucked into bed, doesn't belong out here, under the artificial lights, with the stairwell, the lifts and the large dark windows in full view - it feels very exposing.

"You'd think someone who regularly leaves their door open at night would have fewer expensive things on display." He uses a foot to push the door shut behind them, the movement almost as instinctive this side of the hall as the one his own home rests on. Crowley seems happy enough to be led towards his bedroom. "But you are the type to thumb your nose at things you can't control sometimes. I've learned that much about you."

The duvet and both pillows are on the floor this time. Aziraphale collects them and sets them to rights on the bed, while Crowley looms behind him, taking the occasional step forward and then back. As if he wants to go wandering but also wants to stay. Hovering around Aziraphale like he trusts him to know where he's supposed to be.

Aziraphale can't help but feel a terrible fondness for him. But also a sudden understanding of the depth of this responsibility that he'd been given

"You wanted to take your whole bed with you this time, I see?" he says with a quiet laugh, fixing the sheet back beneath the corner of the mattress, determined to ignore the way the bed smells like Crowley's shampoo and deodorant, and the washing liquid he uses. Mixed in with that sharp scent that's something entirely Crowley, that Aziraphale catches whenever he leans in, or slips into the Bentley with him, or draws him beneath an umbrella when they both misjudge the weather. The memory of that moment still leaves him with a warmth in his chest, Crowley's wet, laughing smile such a treasured, precious memory - a fact he can't help but feel a little guilty for.

"You should, you should kiss me," Crowley tells him again.

Aziraphale can't help the breath of laughter at the continued insistence as he moves around Crowley to take hold of him, trying to encourage him to sit down on the bed, and hopefully go back to sleep. The other man is rarely so resistant, slowly swaying from one foot to the other as Aziraphale gently turns him, the t-shirt bunching beneath his fingers. The muscle of his side twitching when he puts pressure there.

"Well maybe you should kiss me, did you ever think about that?" he counters. "I can't be expected to do everything now, can I?"

Crowley frowns, the angles of his face strange for a moment and something of his gentle softness tightens, becomes far more alert. It takes a second to realise that he's staring straight at Aziraphale. He's unprepared for the sudden switch from asleep to awake, and he quite forgets to make himself let go of Crowley's waist where he's still trying to ease him down.

"Did you just -?" Crowley asks, surprise and confusion making his eyes wide. Aziraphale replays the last words he'd offered in his head with mounting horror.

Oh good heavens, he certainly wasn't supposed to hear that. "No," Aziraphale says, and immediately hates himself for lying "Alright, yes, you were talking. I'm sorry."

"I was dreaming," Crowley says slowly. "And then I wasn't." A sound catches in his throat, the beginning of more words. But he seems to dismiss them, instead choosing to lean in and cover Aziraphale's mouth with his.

Aziraphale is not prepared to be kissed. Not prepared for the crush of lips to his own, for the breath of air against his face. Not prepared for the softness of it, or for the living warmth of another person.

Crowley eases back after only a second, eyes wide in the dark.

"Sorry, that was - should I stop -?"

Aziraphale stretches hurriedly to connect them again. Crowley swaying briefly under his enthusiasm with a muffled laugh. But then his hands are on Aziraphale's waist, pulling him in when he can't help the shaken noise of relief and pleasure. He finds his own hands lifting to hold the back of Crowley's neck, then the madness of his hair, unbearably soft between his fingers. Crowley's mouth is so warm, and he doesn't care in the slightest that they both taste faintly of sleep.

This is probably a terrible idea. It's three in the morning, they're friends, this could ruin everything -

"Please tell me you're actually awake," Aziraphale breathes between kisses, terrified all at once that Crowley will dismiss this as some waking dream, pretend it never happened

"God, yes, I've never been more awake." Crowley's hand sneaks under the bottom of his pyjama shirt, spreads on his bare skin, and Aziraphale can't hold the noise he makes. He finds himself being kissed harder, the sound of it wet and thrilling in the quiet darkness of Crowley's bedroom. Until Crowley seems to think better of it, pulling himself away.

"Sorry, I've been wanting to do that for a while, I got a bit carried away." He stops and looks down. "You're in your pyjamas." He seems to realise it suddenly and clearly finds the idea very entertaining, much to Aziraphale's embarrassment. "Never seen you in your pyjamas before."

"I was -" Aziraphale stops himself from looking at Crowley's mouth, though it's incredibly difficult. Are they not going to talk about - about that? His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. "I was asleep."

"Sorry," Crowley says again though he doesn't look sorry at all. He looks terribly pleased by this development. "In my defence, so was I. Didn't mean to wake you. I've never seen you like this, is this how you feel all the time, when I show up in my bed clothes?" He sounds like he's teasing and Aziraphale can't quite remember how to breathe. 

How could he possibly explain how Crowley has been making him feel?

"I didn't mean to be so demanding," Aziraphale admits. "But, in my defence, you said it first and I got carried away." He hadn't expected Crowley to hear it, he never would have if he'd known - 

And then he never would have been kissed.

"No complaints about you getting carried away, none at all," Crowley tells him. "Thought I was dreaming for a second but your face - you always have a good face, my favourite in fact. But your face telling me to kiss you, that I didn't expect." He's kind enough not to laugh when Aziraphale makes an embarrassed noise at the reminder. "I'm definitely not complaining. In fact, I'd like it if I got to kiss you again. On a regular basis I mean." Crowley looks down at himself, seems to realise where they are and takes a breath. "But, look, if you don't want anything like that, if you don't want to do this with me, it's fine, it's cool." He gives a strained laugh. "I just think if we did, it would be good, it would be really good."

Something hot and fierce expands in Aziraphale's chest, the confirmation that it wasn't just him, that there was an affection, and a desire, and a _certainty_ here too.

"I'm awful at relationships," Aziraphale tells him, and immediately knows it's a terrible thing to say, even if it's horribly true. He's easily distracted and he's fussy, he hates crowds and he likes his things to be in exactly the right place -

"Me too, an absolute disaster," Crowley offers, sounding unfairly thrilled about it. "We should have a go at being a disaster together. You already know I like to wander at night. You've seen my room, you've made my bed at least twice."

Aziraphale can't help the way that pulls his mouth into a smile against his will. "Well you would keep flinging yourself out of it."

"Think I was looking for you," Crowley admits.

Aziraphale's insides give a slow roll of affection and desire. "I think you call me angel," he confesses quietly. "While you're sleeping."

Crowley laughs. "Course I do," he says, as if it's obvious, not a moment of doubt. "So, is that a yes? Can I take you to lunch in a 'hey, this is the man I get to kiss,' kind of way? Is that something you'd be interested in?"

This feels like the sort of conversation they should be having during the day, over coffee, and not standing in Crowley's bedroom in their night clothes. But it's not like it's the first time he's been here, or the first time he's seen Crowley in his soft sleep t-shirt that always refuses to stay on one shoulder, rides up constantly and clings obscenely like he's been rolling about in it. The skin beneath always smooth and tempting in a way that he has so fiercely refused to acknowledge - for months. But in a fit of bravery he lets his hand lift to Crowley's face, thumb stroking his cheek - which is warm and solid. He feels that thrill of nervous excitement, at getting to reach out and touch someone for the first time. He rises briefly to lay a kiss against Crowley's half-smiling mouth. To his clear appreciation.

"I would like that very much," he admits.

The smile Crowley give him in response does help to alleviate some of his embarrassment. The kiss erases it completely.

"I do like seeing you in your pyjamas," Crowley tells him, as if he can't resist, the thought jumping its way out. "Hair all fluffed up, bare feet. Is this how I look to you all the time, really?" he asks again.

Aziraphale, who'd never thought for one second what a sleep-rumpled mess he might look in turn, resists the urge to pat his hair down. Crowley has a point he supposes. This is the way he's always been allowed to see Crowley. It's only fair.

"I do have nicer pyjamas," he feels compelled to share. "But I wasn't expecting company."

Crowley's surprised into a proper laugh. "Is this where I guiltily admit to trying to decide what to wear to bed depending on the likelihood of me sleepwalking over to you?" His nose scrunches in a way that shouldn't be half as attractive as it is. "Got to make a good impression after all."

"You've been nothing but charming, no matter the attire," Aziraphale assures him. Which isn't quite a lie, he's always been hopelessly charmed.

Crowley hums and leans in - then stops himself, to Aziraphale's disappointment. "Feels a bit unfair now, kissing you in my bedroom. I've only just asked you out." The phrasing seems to amuse him.

Aziraphale refuses to blush, he's already done quite enough of that where Crowley's concerned. "A gentleman as well."

"No, you're a gentleman," Crowley counters. "A handsome man keeps wandering into your home in the night and you take him back to bed every time."

"You are very handsome," Aziraphale agrees. 

Crowley clearly likes the fact that he'd managed to get him to admit it, the fiend. "Meet me for coffee tomorrow morning. We'll have a breakfast date. A proper one this time." Crowley looks to one side and laughs. "I would invite you out now but it's only just gone three in the morning."

It is indeed three in the morning, but Aziraphale isn't feeling tired at all. He can't resist Crowley's smile. He couldn't from the moment he first saw it.

"I'm sure I can wait five or six hours." Killing time until morning is something he's become quite good at.

"I promise I'll show up dressed and awake," Crowley promises, with some amusement.

"I am growing rather fond of you that way." Aziraphale knows that this is the moment they're supposed to part, but he doesn't really want to. He feels exceptionally warm and far too excited to even consider going back to bed. In fact, he's not entirely sure he'd refuse if Crowley invited him into the bed behind him right this minute. Which isn't like him at all.

"Half-eight," Crowley says, as if he can't resist stalling either, dragging the moment out. "We'll go to that outdoor cafe you like with the blueberry muffins and sixteen different types of tea."

Aziraphale laughs, because one of them is going to have to leave and since he's the one in his pyjamas in another man's bedroom it should probably be him.

"I suppose I'll see you then." He straightens his pyjama shirt, laughs at himself for it, then slips out of Crowley's bedroom and heads back to his own flat.


	6. In Safe Hands

"Did you enjoy yourself?" 

Aziraphale can't help but laugh over the booklet he'd been given on the way out. Crowley always asks him that, even though this is the fifth time they've gone out together

"Immensely," he confirms, to Crowley's obvious pleasure. "I especially enjoyed the way he used the empty yellow spaces to symbolise sadness, it was so well done." Aziraphale smiles when the other man holds the door for him as they exit the small gallery that's currently showing a few pieces by Crowley's friend, Erik. "The detailed eyes in the moth wings too - and the stretched-out horizon was, I believe, a brilliant representation of how unreachable happiness can sometimes feel."

Crowley makes an indecipherable noise in his throat. "It was definitely very yellow," he agrees. "Thought blue was supposed to be the symbolically sad colour," He's fallen into step beside Aziraphale like he's been there for years, his long hands shoved into his pockets, his whole body tilted in towards him. Aziraphale has no idea how he manages to walk like that without falling over. But he can't help but find it hopelessly endearing. As if Crowley is half caught in an orbit around him.

"I think the mood of every painting depends on its own palette," Aziraphale offers, or at least that's how he thinks it's supposed to work. "And the subject matter. I think you're using both to try and evoke an emotional response in the viewer."

Crowley's nose scrunches briefly. "Well if there's no consensus on this how am I supposed to know which paintings are sad?"

Aziraphale knows perfectly well that he's being teased, it's obvious in the smile that opens when he looks at him, every inch of it mischievous. But it's also in the way he rocks slightly into him, like he's waiting for Aziraphale to bluster so he can lean over and kiss him.

He wouldn't be averse to that. He hopes that's equally as obvious. Crowley doesn't have to try very hard to get his attention.

"Well I suppose you'll just have to keep me around to let you know." He says with a laugh. As if Crowley's company hasn't been the highlight of every museum, garden and gallery they've visited in the last month. Aziraphale had always felt out of place on his own, but sharing these experiences with Crowley is perhaps the most fun he's ever had.

"I suppose I will," Crowley agrees. Though the words are quiet, and far more serious than Aziraphale had intended his light-hearted comment to be. "Erik loves you by the way. I have no idea what the fuck he's going on about half the time. I think he was actively weeping when you left."

Aziraphale had been so afraid that Crowley's friend wouldn't like him, for a variety of what he considered to be fairly obvious reasons. But Erik had been a ball of enthusiasm and warmth, all but vibrating to show off his work. His pieces were so interesting to look at, with their thick curves of bright paint next to pale empty spaces, and animals that weren't quite animals if you looked closely enough. He'd only come into the city for a few days, and Aziraphale hadn't expected Crowley to be so eager to introduce them. But it's easy to see why he's so fond of the young artist.

Though Crowley is exaggerating horribly, as usual. "That's not true and you know it."

"Weeping," Crowley repeats. "Because he knows how rude and impatient I can be with my friends, so now he's probably convinced he'll never see you again."

The suggestion in that leaves Aziraphale drawing one long hand out from a pocket that's far too tight for it and squeezing it. Though Crowley simply uses that as an excuse to tug him closer, expensive black leather pressed to his twenty year old tan jacket.

"Erik was very nice," Aziraphale tells him. "I enjoyed meeting him, and you're not half as rude or impatient as you think you are."

Crowley pulls a face. "To be honest half is still quite a lot."

Aziraphale nudges him with an elbow - and this time he does get a lean and a kiss, pressed rather recklessly to the curve of his ear.

"I'm not even joking any more. He likes you, probably more than he likes me. You appreciated his weird skull art. The most he gets from me is an 'oof, mate, that's pretty spooky looking.' He's going to ask after you every time I see him now. I hope you have room in your flat to hang seascapes that make you want to question your own mortality."

Aziraphale pretends to consider it for a moment. "I have always wanted to feel a sense of impending doom as I make my way through breakfast."

"Breakfast is the most existential meal of the day," Crowley confirms, much to Aziraphale's amusement.

"Do you think?"

"Obviously. Where did I go during the night? Am I still me? Did I wake up where I went to sleep? For me the answer to that last one is sometimes a mystery, for you it might be different."

Aziraphale can't help the smile he turns on him, he's noticed how Crowley seems a bit more comfortable with his night-time wanderings since they...turned their arrangement into something mutual and affectionate. He'd even given permission for Aziraphale to wake him, if he was up and feeling lonely. Though he hasn't quite felt brave enough yet.

"Well then, perhaps I should get to work moving a few bookshelves to make wall space for my new paintings."

Crowley's face does something terribly amusing, some combination of pout and accusation.

"No," he says. "I've changed my mind. You were my friend first. I'm not letting him lure you away with his paintings of fish with human skulls. Next thing I know you'll be having conversations about art, or literature, or sharing recipes from the seventeen hundreds."

"Does he _have_ recipes from the seventeen-hundreds?" Aziraphale asks, a spark of genuine interest to his amusement. "Because I would find that fascinating. I have a collection you know."

Crowley lifts a hand to his chest in the perfect display of mock wounding. "Abandoned for Mrs Shelton's famous tripe and pigeon pie," he says mournfully.

Aziraphale laughs. "This is entirely your fault for making the conversation about books," he points out. Because Crowley really should know better by now. "You know they're my weakness."

"You are the bookish sort, very bookish, very clever, I like that about you." There's a smile that doesn't so much soften the words as turn them liquid and fond, to Aziraphale's delight. It tempts him into letting their hands tangle. The warmth of his fingers threading through Crowley's cold ones.

"I'm not so clever as all that. There are significant gaps in my knowledge as you well know." The conversation about dolphins had rather cemented that fact for all time. They've talked for hours and Aziraphale knows that Crowley is far smarter than he gives himself credit for. "You have books as well," he reminds him. "I've seen them."

"I only use my books to trap myself in the flat at night," Crowley protests.

"That's a lie you have several astronomy and science books that look very well-thumbed." 

"That just proves that I thumb them." Crowley's smiling while he says it, ridiculous contrary man that he is, and Aziraphale is deeply fond of him - perhaps more than that if he's being honest. Though it feels far too soon for something so big.

Crowley lets him unlock the outer door, then trails in after him. "You hardly ever sleep. You own an antique shop full of bewildering old things. You've read every book ever written."

"One of those is a lie," Aziraphale says sensibly, only to find himself tugged into the lift and kissed while it makes its way up to the fourth floor.

He's embarrassingly red when the doors finally open - thankfully to an empty hallway - and let them out. They're far too old to kiss against the wall between their two flats, but they do it anyway. It's getting harder and harder to leave Crowley for the night. Aziraphale is craving further intimacy - though perhaps he shouldn't use that word when his desires are so vivid and so greedy. Something more physical, more sexual, may be a better fit. He is craving the stretch of Crowley's body against his own, the quiet sounds he'd make into Aziraphale's mouth, the slow rhythm of their pleasure.

He isn't sure if Crowley is waiting for him to say something. There's no question or reluctance about his own desire, and Crowley always seems pained to separate for the night too.

"Spend the night with me." Aziraphale finds himself saying, in a fit of bravery.

Crowley, who'd been about to speak, exhales roughly. "Aziraphale -"

The thought of an impending rejection has him hurrying out more words before Crowley can finish.

"I understand if you don't want to, but I wanted to leave it out there that I wouldn't be averse to the two of us -"

"I want to," Crowley admits, leaving the rest of Aziraphale's desperate ramble to fall away. He finds himself being kissed, slower this time. Their bodies seem to fit together so naturally, curves into concaves, angles into soft spaces. Aziraphale finds that it's almost too easy to hold him, to loop an arm around his slender waist, fingers dipping under his jacket to spread where the material is thin.

"I would love that," Crowley says roughly. "I would love to stay with you, in your bed, you have no idea how much." He presses their foreheads together. "But you should know that I don't tend to sleep very well in strange places." There's a smile, a small apologetic thing. "It makes me restless, more than usual, if you can imagine."

"I don't think my flat is all that strange to you any more." Aziraphale has found Crowley in every part of his home, softened and content to shuffle and wander and touch his things. "At least that's what you keep telling my fridge."

"I do not," Crowley protests, half horrified and half amused.

Aziraphale nods. "But you're always very polite if that's what you're worried about."

Crowley pulls a hand down his face. "Yes, that was exactly it, thank you for the reassurance."

Aziraphale kisses the curve of his jaw and fumbles backwards to unlock the door behind him, bumps it open and steps back into the darkness of his flat. Then he holds a hand out.

Crowley hisses air through his teeth, but he lifts his own hand and takes it, lets himself be gently tugged inside, pushing the door shut behind him.

-

Crowley has an angel pressed up against the back of his front door, and Aziraphale is laughing his way through kisses while he feels for the light switch.

"I'm sorry, am I being distracting?" Crowley mumbles between presses of mouth. "This is your fault you know, smiling at me, being absolutely irresistible."

"You've been resisting very well so far." That sounds enough like a complaint to amuse him.

"That's a lie. I was being a gentleman," Crowley explains. "I didn't want to -" He didn't want to come on too strong, or make Aziraphale think that was all he was interested in. He hadn't wanted to fuck this up. There'd been no promises that they were going to do anything other than spend the night together. He doesn't know what Aziraphale likes, what he wants. He doesn't want to assume. He doesn't want to get it wrong. This is important to him. This is so fucking important to him.

"You've been a perfect gentleman." Aziraphale kisses him so deeply Crowley forgets how to breathe. "And now I would very much like to take your clothes off and see what you look like naked in my bed, unless you have any objections?"

Crowley makes a noise which barely sounds human.

"No, no objections, that sounds - fuck, please tell me I get to see what you look like too?" The image of Aziraphale's bowtie and waistcoat and shirt and trousers on the bedroom floor is a good one. His strong thighs, big shoulders, soft stomach and chest, all spread out and Crowley's to touch as much as he likes. To be able to put his hands and his mouth on him, to press himself down against him - or, where those thighs are concerned, maybe wrap them around his waist, or throw them over his shoulders. God, that might be going too fast though.

Aziraphale is smiling up at him. "Oh, I think I might let you have a peek."

There are hands on his belt, on his jeans, sliding in where his hips are jutting and naked to spread fingertips across the skin. A tease of everything to come that has Crowley sucking in a breath and biting out a curse.

"Aziraphale." His voice already sounds like a wreck. His own stupid, clumsy hands lifting to push the angel's waistcoat off, and then tug at the buttons of his shirt - which is a harder task than usual because Aziraphale keeps kissing him, keeps touching him. Crowley has most of an erection already and he'd like to make this last longer than two minutes if at all possible. He catches Aziraphale's wrists - because the other man's hands seem intent on sliding inside the front of his uncomfortably tight jeans and jerking him to completion right here.

Fuck, he might let him. Stupid, stupid man that he is.

"If you touch my cock at this point we're not going to make it to the bedroom." It sounds more like a plea than a warning.

Aziraphale leans against his chest and laughs. "I'll pretend that doesn't sound appealing." The echo of the same thought he'd had himself leaves Crowley laughing and squeezing the beautiful half-undressed man that he's slowly losing his mind to.

They do manage to make it to the bedroom, and Crowley discovers that Aziraphale's bed is big and indulgent, and surprisingly firm looking. Having such a nice bed when you've had insomnia for years seems a special sort of cruelty. But he supposes if you're going to spend nights not sleeping somewhere then you could do a lot worse.

Crowley gets pushed gently onto it, to appreciate it better. He kicks the covers down while Aziraphale lets his shirt fall free and works on the old-fashioned catch of his trousers. He's such a beautiful mix of soft and solid, all wide shoulders, strong arms and heavy thighs, paired with a soft chest and stomach. Every inch of him is perfect. Crowley gives a hiss of approval while he tugs his own socks off.

"You're being a massive tease being so far away, come over here so I can touch you."

"I'm two feet away," Aziraphale says, with some amusement. "You have perfectly functioning arms." But he obediently comes close enough for Crowley to catch hold of him, slipping his fingers in the back of his boxer shorts and finding the plushest arse he'd ever gotten his hands on.

"I want my mouth on every inch of you," Crowley tells him. Then proves it by stretching upwards and laying wet kisses to the soft underside of Aziraphale's chest. It gets him such a sweet noise of appreciation he's not sure he's going to stop.

No, definitely not going to stop, not any time soon anyway.

"The feeling is mutual." Aziraphale's fingers thread in his hair and then tug until Crowley tips his head back, mouth still open, the taste of Aziraphale on his tongue and a groan in his throat. "You always look like you want to be kissed. I've been trying - and failing - to resist you since the moment I met you. You're an absolute temptation." The angel's underwear is tenting outwards, the shape of it thick and beautiful, leaving a wet patch on the material.

"I always want you to kiss me," Crowley admits. His fingers tuck into the waistband, drawing them slowly down, easing the elastic over the head of Aziraphale's cock. It's a lovely thing, solid and thick with a pink head stretching the skin out. Fluid is already gathering, a smear of it across the tip makes him swallow thickly.

"You have a beautiful cock," Crowley tells him in a rough voice, because it's true.

"Why thank you." Aziraphale sounds so adorably embarrassed. Crowley has to pull him down, has to lay him laughing in the pillows and kiss him. One cheeky tug of strong hands and they're both as naked as each other, to Aziraphale's appreciation and delight. So shamelessly erect that there's no way to hide it, no way to avoid jabbing and thrusting against each other. They tumble together and kiss, unable to resist a grasp at each other's erection, or a stroke of warm hands on bare skin. Crowley has to grab himself twice when Aziraphale won't stop touching. Which seems a deeply unfair complaint, because Crowley wants his own hands everywhere, wants his mouth anywhere.

God, the man is so beautiful.

"Let me," Crowley breathes against the peak of Aziraphale's nipple, closing his mouth to give a wet, indulgent pull on it, which gets him a gasping moan. "Let me." He slips down, kisses the amused shake of his angel's stomach, spreading those beautiful big thighs to get between. "Let me."

Aziraphale's hands push into his hair and Crowley opens his mouth around the sticky head of his cock, licks at the flushed warmth of it, the soft skin, and the sensitive curving ridge, before taking half of him in, sucking with a groan of desperate eagerness.

" _Crowley._ " Aziraphale's thighs jerk and Crowley's hand reaches out to grab one, the other wrapped around the base of Aziraphale's cock, fingers squeezing as he works him in short greedy movements. "Crowley, I can't last if you - dear God - you have to slow down or you're going to make me come." It sounds so filthy in Aziraphale's voice. Crowley groans around him but lets his grip loosen, mouth drawing back slowly to give the head some much-deserved attention.

An indulgent series of sucks leaves a drop of fluid on his tongue - which is such a visceral indication of arousal that he can't help gripping a buttock and encouraging Aziraphale to move, to give nudging pushes into his mouth that are so viscerally arousing Crowley has to get him as deep as he can, until his throat squeezes down on the shape of him.

The hand in Crowley's hair twitches, fingers curling, as if it would dearly like to close tight and push him down again. Which sounds like a fantastic idea - to leave his polite, bookish lover so desperate to come in his mouth that he'd get a little rough with him. Crowley is not half as polite, letting Aziraphale gently thrust into his mouth as he bobs and tugs with his hand. His own cock is throbbing and desperate where it hangs between his thighs. Occasionally brushing the bed, little spikes of sensation rippling through him. He ends up moaning with his mouth full.

"Crowley, I can't, I'm -"

The hand closes in his hair, giving a short warning tug - before Aziraphale is groaning pleasure, a wet pulse of come lands on Crowley tongue, then another, the taste of it filling his mouth in short spills as he slowly works him through it, squeezing up to the head as he licks it clean.

Aziraphale is rasping out a soft apology for the hurried warning, or for not lasting half as long as he'd wanted to. Adorable man that he is. He trembles and shakes and stares down at him with eyes blown-out and adoring.

Crowley thinks he may love him more than a little.

He slithers up to kiss him, the generous warmth of Aziraphale's body so inviting beneath his own that he has to hold him, has to squeeze him, even though his own need is heavy and desperate. The kiss goes on through the last breathless moans of bliss, and Aziraphale doesn't seem concerned about the taste of himself in Crowley's mouth. He can feel himself rutting gently against the plushness of Aziraphale's pelvis, his cock leaving sticky lines on the skin.

"Use me," Aziraphale says, his post-orgasm voice soft and rough in a way that leaves Crowley cursing and pressing in tight. There's a gentle tug to his buttock, urging the roll and thrust of his hips into something rhythmic.

The thought of coming across Aziraphale's soft damp cock and rounded stomach, leaving a mess in that snow pale hair, is suddenly the only thing Crowley can imagine wanting.

"Oh fuck, yes, angel."

Aziraphale shivers out a sound, his spent cock twitching - and then he's stretching upwards towards the drawer of the bedside cabinet, his hand knocking objects aside for a moment, before he's passing lubricant down the bed.

"If you want to we could..." he offers, with what Crowley suspects is more nerves than enthusiasm. "Though it's been rather a long time."

"This is good," Crowley reassures him, kissing his collarbone, his warm throat and then the soft redness of his mouth. "This is perfect."

He levers back up to his knees for a moment to coat the stiff heat of himself with one slippery hand, before pressing down into Aziraphale's body again. Aziraphale gives a little 'oh' of delight and reaches one hand up to grip the headboard while the other clings to Crowley's waist. Crowley's left panting on every rocking push of his slippery over-sensitive cock. The ache goes deep before the need crawls upwards, pulling a whine out of his throat. Aziraphale tips his head down to see where Crowley's hips work against him, and he looks absolutely thrilled by the thought of Crowley coming all over him -

\- which, fuck, he does. His head drops just in time to watch wet lines of come stripe Aziraphale's stomach and his pale pubic hair. He's left groaning and sliding through it, making a mess between them as the raw pleasure of orgasm leaves him clinging tight. An 'angel' makes its way free, and Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley's hips, the obvious sign of how much he likes it taking Crowley by surprise.

They end up sprawled together, faces close, there's an attempt at a kiss, but mostly they just breathe and laugh. Their hands are still gripping each other as their bodies cool.

"I would really like to do that again," Crowley says quietly. "With you. Maybe longer than ten minutes next time."

Aziraphale still manages to look shy while covered in Crowley's come, which is a vision he's not going to be forgetting any time soon. But it turns out there are wet wipes next to his bed too. Because of course there are. The angel even makes cleaning up adorable, the soft nakedness of him moving in the bed feels like a gift Crowley doesn't deserve. The width of Aziraphale's thighs is so appealing he immediately wants his hands on them again.

They compromise, tangling their way up together with one of Aziraphale's legs thrown over his own. Crowley's not sure he's ever coming out from under it. It's been years since intimacy had felt this easy.

"Are you going to sleep?" he asks.

"I don't know," Aziraphale says, in a way that feels honest. "Probably not. But I'd still like it if you stayed here with me."

Crowley didn't know how much he'd wanted to hear Aziraphale say it. "I'd like that too. I'll need to go get something to wear though. I can't sleep naked, for obvious reasons."

"You could always borrow something of mine," Aziraphale offers. The curve of his smile is amused, as if he expects Crowley to refuse - but the thought of wandering around in something soft and worn that smells of Aziraphale is - it's definitely something.

"Yeah? I'd like that," he admits. Which gets him a long squeeze and a press of mouth to the shape of his tattoo. "You should be prepared for me to get up though, I'm not sure where I'll go from here. Could be anywhere to be honest."

"I'll come and find you," Aziraphale promises. "Anywhere you go."


End file.
